The Gift
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: Set early season one, several weeks after the quartet have met, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan must use their own various gifts in order to retrieve a gift intended for King Louis.
1. Chapter 1

It had been raining for days. Weeks it seemed to the musketeers, returning one morning from guard duty at the palace.

The King was growing increasingly frustrated about being kept indoors and his peevish attitude had begun to infect those around him.

D'Artagnan shifted his weight between the balls of his feet as he stood in the stables. Unbeknownst to him, it was the perfect imitation of the mare that Aramis was grooming. Porthos however did notice, and with a nudge to Athos, he noticed too. Athos raised an eyebrow as Porthos grinned widely.

"Hey, Whelp!" he called to the younger man, "Want an apple?"

D'Artagnan turned and caught the fruit that was tossed his way. He shook his long brown locks back away from his face before noisily munching the apple. Porthos let out a bark of laughter and doubled up at the confused look on the man's face. Even Athos grinned slightly.

D'Artagnan scowled, his chewing slowed. He knew something was up but he wasn't quite sure what…

Frustrated, he groaned, "When can we get out of here? Are you almost done grooming this poor animal?"

"Somewhere to be?" asked Aramis, eyebrows raised, as he patted the mare on the neck.

"No," he scowled. "It's just, I've never been in the city for so long. It's still strange to me," he said. Being stuck inside the city was a strange thing for the farm boy who, though he had been with the musketeers for several weeks now, was still not used to the busy streets and brick buildings on all sides. A part of the heart of the Gascon still yearned for the fields and the open air.

The quartet exited the stables, the remainder of D'Artagnan's apple going to the now scrupulously groomed mare.

"Better in the garrison in a warm bed than out on the road with nothin' but a bedroll," Porthos countered.

"It seems our days of bed may be numbered," responded Aramis. "It looks as though the Captain is looking for us…"

Athos cast a glance at Porthos and Aramis as Treville marched in their direction. "Did you two do anything I should be aware of?"

The two men had a hasty exchange of glances, before Aramis said, "I'm going to pretend like we didn't hear that."

"Besides," countered Porthos, "You would've been there too if we did!"

Athos rolled his eyes and turned to meet Treville.

"Gentlemen," said Treville when he reached where the men were assembled under the overhang at the base of the stairs.

"Captain," said the four, straightening to receive potential orders. Though a kind, good and honourable man, Treville seemed to travel under his own weather system even at the best of times. He had the disposition of a man that was always certain it would rain, and when it was raining, he was the man on alert for thunder. This made him nearly impossible to read for those who did not know him well, and made him an invaluable captain. He was always prepared for the worst.

"I have a mission for you," he said.

"Yes!" exclaimed D'Artagnan. Treville's eyes narrowed. D'Artagnan wilted under the scrutiny and shifted to regain his composure. Porthos turned his head and Aramis faked a cough to stifle their laughter.

"If you're finished," said Treville, catching each man's eye with that well practiced ice-blue stare. "About a week ago Michel and Girard were sent to escort a package from Le Havre for the King. Its contents were unknown. I received word from Girard that they had arrived and would be returning once they had secured the package. It is a three days' ride to Le Havre."

"They should have returned by now," said Athos, his quick blue eyes catching the worry in his Captain's.

"Well, roads are bad with all this rain," defended Aramis, "one could have been washed out and delayed them or they could have been delayed in receiving the package because of it."

Treville brought his hand up to rub the bridge of his nose. "I hope so, for their sakes, that is all that has happened," he said.

Four pairs of eyes grew instantly concerned at the hint of a threat to the other musketeers.

"The King…has grown impatient," he sighed. "It turns out that the package contains a valuable gift for the King from his sister, Henrietta…There have been implications that my men may not be trusted." He stopped as the wave of outrage hit him.

"That's absurd!" roared Porthos.

"I would trust those men with my life!" affirmed Aramis, D'Artagnan nodding his head profusely in agreement.

"You must have argued against that insinuation," Athos drawled, cutting across his brothers' further indignation.

Treville raised his eyebrow. "Of course! I stand by every man I accept into this regiment. The King has decided to use this situation as a test of my men's morality. I need you four to set out to find the others and return the package to Paris, by any means necessary."

"By any means?" Athos quirked an eyebrow.

Treville grew even more grim. A steely smile clung to his lips, but there was no warmth there – just determination. "I trust my men," he said. "I hope Aramis is right and it's only rain that has delayed their return…but if it's not…"

"We won't fail you," said Athos. Treville looked at his men, and once more catching and holding each eye, he nodded and turned on his heel, heading back up the stairs to the confines of his office.

oOo


	2. Chapter 2

As the stable hands prepped the horses, D'Artagnan prepped the saddlebags. Athos looked over a map with Porthos as Aramis joined them having just restocked his medical kit.

"What are you thinking?" asked Aramis as he drew level with his brothers.

"There are two roads to Paris from Le Havre," said Athos.

"The direct route on the main road is faster, but it's unprotected," said Porthos.

"And this one," said Athos pointing to another trail that veered slightly on its course from the harbour town, "This route skirts through the woods here before emerging about half a day's ride out. It's longer, but the woods can sometimes offer more shelter."

"They wouldn't have known that what they were carrying was valuable," said Aramis, "So they may not have thought to take the wooded road."

Athos nodded, "But with all this rain, the prospect of spending the few nights sheltered by the trees might have seemed the better bet."

"Should we split up?" asked D'Artagnan as he joined the others. The horses were tethered and ready to go, standing in the still lightly falling rain.

"No," said Athos. "There is a village here, where the roads meet up again to get to Paris," he said, gesturing again to the map. "Hopefully we can gather some information there."

Porthos nodded. "I know Girard. He's a good gambler. I'd say he'd wager his odds in the woods rather than risk the open road if he's carryin' somethin' for the King. I'd put my money on them not taking the main road home."

"I agree," said Athos. "But we'll wait until we get a little closer until we make that call." With that the Musketeers mounted their horses and made their way out of the Garrison, their horses' hooves splashing in the puddles of the busy market streets.

oOo

The musketeers rode steadily for a few hours, stopping only to rest their horses. The rain had kept the roads practically empty; the only sound was that of their horses steady footfalls which echoed across the sodden landscape.

Eventually they came upon the village Athos had indicated as night was falling and made their way to the inn. D'Artagnan and Porthos led their horses to the stables as Aramis and Athos entered to inquire about rooms. They stowed their bags in the rooms on the second floor they had been shown to. One was large with a big hearth, a settee, two beds, a table and some chairs. The other room was adjoining but contained only two beds, and a hearth.

"Porthos and I will allow you to take the opulent room. I know you're more accustomed to such luxuries," Aramis teased, bowing low to Athos who scowled. Hanging their rain drenched cloaks to dry, the quartet returned downstairs and commandeered a table in the busy dining area.

The Musketeers surveyed the other patrons as they ate the hearty stew that was served to them. As the bowls were taken away and more wine and cheese was brought forward, Athos looked purposefully at Aramis and Porthos.

"Gentlemen, to your business," he said. Aramis and Porthos stood from the table grinning. Porthos finished his cup of wine, clapped his hands and then made his way to the corner of the room where a card game was underway. Aramis ran his hand through his hair, replaced his hat and elegantly draped himself at a table in the opposite corner. The barmaid immediately bee-lined for him, a new bottle of wine in hand, her other charges forgotten. D'Artagnan's jaw dropped open as her giggle filtered its way across the room. Athos smirked into his wine.

"How does he do that?" D'Artagnan asked, awe and disbelief palpable in his tone.

"Perhaps you might ask him," suggested Athos. "Aramis' silver tongue can be quite the useful tool – if it doesn't get us killed one day."

Athos continued to observe the other patrons, while D'Artagnan went to join Porthos at his card game.

The pretty barmaid was now perched on Aramis knee and was whispering intently into his ear. The marksman's head was tipped down, a slight smile on his lips. He whispered something back to her and gestured to another table whose cups clearly needed replenishing. She pouted and drew back, a hurt look passing across her face. Aramis took her hand in his and delicately kissed it, looking up at her beneath the brim of his hat. She nearly melted like a candle under that gaze from those brown eyes, and blushing deeply, she went to fill her tray at the bar. Grinning, Aramis stood and went to re-join Athos at the table. D'Artagnan joined them as well.

"Well,' said Athos, "What did you learn?"

Aramis grinned, "I learned that Jeanelle's favourite colour is blue, that she has two sisters, one of whom has a great love of horses," he said with a grin and a wink at D'Artagnan. "I also learned that Michel and Girard came this way on their way to Le Havre, but she hasn't seen them return. The rain has slowed down travellers. There haven't been any new arrivals in nearly a week, though a group of traders came by the day after Michel and Girard, also heading for Le Havre. Apparently, it's been most boring here lately, and Jeanelle has offered to…ensure my stay is…"

"Stimulating?" Athos suggested with an eyebrow raised as he took another drink from his glass. Aramis grinned and poured himself more wine.

D'Artagnan's jaw was slack again. "How did you…"

"We all have our special talents," said Aramis, raising his glass. "Athos' is picking out very fine wine to get overly drunk on. Porthos' is…" he said, and as if on cue, the men could hear Porthos' booming laugh echo out from his table.

With a sigh, Aramis rose again. "I think it best that we suggest Porthos lose a few hands before we turn in. It would do us no good to be murdered in our sleep over a busy pair of hands."

"Yours included," said Athos wryly as the barmaid passed their table, intentionally brushing herself up against Aramis where he stood. Aramis smirked and went to collect his friend.

"Come," said Athos as he threw some coins down on the table and grasped the remaining bottle of wine.

Aramis and Porthos were making their way up the stairs, Porthos and the other card players were both grinning, showing no hurt feelings.

Jeanelle's hurt feelings were a little more obvious as she sulked behind the bar, staring longingly after Aramis as he made his way upstairs with his brothers.

oOo

Settling into their large room, Athos pulled a chair from the table and sat near the fire. Aramis dropped himself on the settee while Porthos leant against the hearth as D'Artagnan sat at the other end of the settee.

"Anything to report?" Athos asked Porthos passing him the bottle of wine.

"Not much," he said, taking a swig from the bottle. "There's been rumors about trouble on the road to Paris. Traders are movin' in groups, tryin' ta not be easy targets. Poachers they're callin'em."

"Poachers?" asked D'Artagnan.

"They're hunting game – targeting those looking to unload wares in Paris. They're not picky about what the wares are as long as they can fetch a price," responded Aramis, taking the bottle from Porthos. "That seems to align with what Jeanelle said. It would explain the lack of tourists, why the traders are moving in groups and why Michel and Girard haven't returned this way yet." He took a sip from the bottle too and passed it D'Artagnan.

"So what should we do?" asked D'Artagnan, who began nervously rolling the bottle in his hands without drinking from it. "Stick to the main road, or head to the wooded one?"

Athos plucked the bottle from D'Artagnan's restless hands. "We take the wooded road," he said and poured the remaining contents into his glass and drained it. "The risk of the open road seems to be driving all these men towards the forest, making it an ideal hunting ground for these poachers. It's likely that we'll find some trace of our men there."

oOo


	3. Chapter 3

The night passed quickly, and come morning the Musketeers made ready to leave. A cross looking Jeanelle saw them off. Shoving a bundle at Aramis, she suddenly grabbed D'Artagnan and pulled him into a firm and passionate kiss before pulling away and glaring at the marksman. Aramis grinned at her, and bowed, removing his hat. Porthos chuckled and pushed D'Artagnan out the door.

"What a beautiful morning!" Aramis said, slapping D'Artagnan on the shoulder as they mounted and pulled away from the inn.

"I warned you that he might get you killed," smirked Athos as he pulled ahead, leaving a shocked D'Artagnan to deal with Porthos' ribbing for the start of their second day.

The good mood dwindled as the day wore on. The rain had ceased overnight, but the climbing sun and moisture caught in the dense trees they were now riding through made the journey difficult. It felt as though they were wading through porridge, the humidity in the trees and the muddy ground making their progress slower than Athos would have liked.

They called a halt as the sun began to set. Aramis joined Athos where he stood looking out at the road.

"We should have seen some sign of them by now," said Athos, "Unless I misjudged and they took the open road…"

"We all agreed that this was the most likely course they would have taken," Aramis said. "We will stand by your decision, brother. We know you want to find Michel and Girard and recover the package for the King. No one is doubting your actions."

"Except the King," responded Athos, dryly.

"Yes," said Aramis. "No one but the King," he said with a grin. Athos raised an eyebrow, fighting a smirk and turned back to their camp, his hand on the marksman's shoulder.

"Athos!" cried D'Artagnan as he burst through the trees surrounding the clearing where they were to make camp that night. "I found this by the river!" he said and held out his hand. In it there was a brass button engraved with a fleur-de-lis, the same brass buttons that festooned each of the musketeers' riding cloaks.

"Spread out," said Athos. "Search the river before we lose the light!"

Athos and D'Artagnan started scouring the west bank of the river while Porthos and Aramis searched the east. The river was shallow and strong but easily crossed by the musketeers. They followed the river for a good half hour before D'Artagnan spotted a blue cloak caught on something up ahead.

"Over there!" he shouted and dashed forward towards the blue mass. Aramis and Porthos came splashing across the river. Aramis got to the man first.

He dropped to his knees and carefully turned the man onto his back, pulling at the cloak to reveal the face. The calm features of Michel stared back at him, distorted from their time in the river.

The marksmen looked at his brothers and shook his head. No words were needed as he closed the unseeing eyes of their brother-at-arms and said a prayer for his soul.

"There were some signs of blood on the other side of the river," Porthos said. "If they split up, Girard may be wounded on the other side."

Athos nodded. "There is a monastery not far from here," said Athos. "If he was injured, Girard would have headed in that direction."

Aramis prepared Michel's body by wrapping it in its cloak while D'Artagnan hastily gathered the items that they had begun to unpack for their camp. Porthos helped Aramis secure Michel to his horse before they set off towards the monastery, the sun beginning to set around them.

Dark splotches of blood dotted their way towards the monastery. Signs of pursuit were obvious when they came upon a clearing and found the bodies of two men dressed in black. Aramis and Porthos dismounted, handing their reins to Athos. Porthos checked the bodies of the dead men while Aramis made his way further into the brush in pursuit of something only his marksman's eyes could see.

"The blood is still wet. Rain shoulda' washed this away if this 'appened a few days ago," rumbled Porthos. "And these men…they're carryin' quite a bit of gold for poor thieves…"

"Mercenaries?" suggested D'Aratgnan.

"Could be," Athos responded. Aramis returned to the clearing carrying a spent pistol. He stooped at the edge on the clearing and pulled out another pistol that had been buried in a bush.

"There was a third man who must have trailed them. He and Girard must have exchanged fire, but whether before or after this all happened I'm not sure," he said, gesturing to the battle scene. "Girard hit him, but he rode away, probably to regroup and gather reinforcements."

Athos nodded. "Let's continue to the monastery. We may find our answers there."

ooooooooooooo

A/N: Thanks for all the great feedback, favourites and follows on this story so far. Sorry, this chapter is a little short, but like every stereotypical good Canadian, I'm heading into the woods to celebrate Canada Day and won't have connection to the internet, or power or indoor plumbing for that matter. I'll probably end up posting something on Monday when I'm back in the city nursing mosquito bites and a hangover.

Cheers, and to any Canadian followers, Happy Canada Day, eh!


	4. Chapter 4

It was just dark as they reached the monastery's doors. The brothers' chanting could be heard from the courtyard. Aramis crossed himself as he entered the threshold.

"We are sorry to disturb you Father," said Athos to the priest who greeted them. "We are members of the King's Musketeers. We are searching for a brother-in-arms who was attacked in the woods not far from here while in service to the King. His companion, another one of our brothers, was lost in that altercation," he said gesturing to Michel's body that was strapped to Aramis' horse.

"I am sorry for your loss," said the priest gravely. "Your brother found us yesterday morning. He was gravely wounded – barely conscious and slumped in his saddle next to his horse's neck. He nearly fell from it when we approached him. His wounds were grievous. We've been tending him but…"

"Please, father, may I see him," asked Aramis interrupting.

The old man nodded, ignoring the interruption at the look of despair on Aramis' face. Aramis raced off, flying at the hem of another monk's robes.

"We can lay your brother to rest here in the morning," the priest said.

"Thank you, Father…?" Athos asked.

"Father Ambrose," he replied.

"Father Ambrose," said D'Artagnan, "there are two men in a clearing not far from here. They were two of the men that attacked our brothers…"

"They too will be laid to rest," he said. "Whatever their battles were on earth, are now over. Their judgement is now in God's hands. Come. You look weary from your travels. I will take you to see your brother, then I will have food sent to you. I should warn you though, your brother has not awoken since he came to us. He may not be able to provide you with the answers you're looking for."

Porthos handed Michel's body to two monks who approached him with a stretcher. D'Artagnan helped a third guide the horses to a stable, grabbing Aramis' medical bag, just in case, before the father led the men to the infirmary where they found Aramis arguing with a grizzled older monk.

"Leeches!" the musketeer medic shouted.

"It is God's will – " the monk began, his voice raised.

"It is God's will to heal not hinder!" Aramis shouted back.

"Aramis!" called Athos startling the marksman.

It was rare to see Aramis lashing out at a religious man. Aramis was incredibly spiritual and his faith in God had been his source of comfort – and a comfort to his brothers, though they'd never admit it – through many dire misadventures. To see him red faced and glaring at a monk seemed quite absurd to the men who knew him best.

"This man wants to bleed him, Athos! With leeches!" Aramis hissed at Athos whose raised his eyebrows at the implication of what that word meant. He put his hand on the marksman and looked him in the eye in a silent assertion that he understood.

"Father Ambrose," said Athos, turning to the man who escorted them in. "Aramis is our medic. He has much experience in herbal craft and the treatment of battle wounds, something I'm sure you and your brothers do not see much of here. Perhaps you will allow Aramis to take over Girard's treatment…"

The priest nodded. "We are a scholarly brotherhood, yet not so experienced in practice. I'm sure Brother Jean's intentions were good, and I'm sure there is much we can learn from Monsieur Aramis," he said. Brother Jean and Aramis both bowed slightly to Father Ambrose before Aramis turned and began demanding that he be brought boiling water and cold compresses.

oOo

Girard's body lay pale and wan on a table. A sweaty sheen was visible on his body. There was a gash on his side that appeared to have been stitched nicely, but the gunshot wound on his shoulder did not seem to be doing as well. Aramis hissed when he took in the wound. It had been stitched closed but the infection present was obvious.

"I managed to get the ball out," stammered a young monk who brought Aramis the boiling water. Aramis divided it and dropped his dagger into one of the bowls.

"The wound grew infected after we closed it, which is why Brother Jean suggested the leeches, as St. Aquinas says," the young monk explained.

Aramis nodded distractedly. He rustled through his medical kit that D'Artagnan had handed him, and withdrawing several packets of dried herbs, threw a handful into the boiling water to steep.

"D'Artagnan," he said, calling to the young man. "I need these ground and combined with some of this to form a paste."

D'Artagnan smelled the jar that was handed to him. "Honey?" he questioned.

"It helps prevent infection. Hopefully it will help fight this one," was the response. "Porthos, Athos, I'm going to need you to brace him. I need to clean this wound before we can stitch it again." D'Artagnan set to work on the poultice as Athos and Porthos took their positions.

Taking the dagger from the boiling water Aramis deftly sliced through the monk's stitching; a putrid yellow pus poured from the wound. The young monk gagged at the smell and the substance. Aramis strained the herbs from the boiled water and began to flush the wound. As the hot water made contact with the inflamed flesh, Girard's body began to flail violently. Athos and Porthos leaned on the man to suppress him.

"It's ok brother, it's Aramis. You're safe. We're here to help you," he muttered to the man as he removed the stitches and continued to flush the wound until the blood began to run clear again. Girard had stilled, unconscious from the pain of the wound. Athos and Porthos made to relax their grips.

"Not quite yet," warned Aramis. "The wound is free of pus right now, but I need to check to make sure there are no fragments that may have been missed which could have caused this infection. You, bring that candle closer," he said to the young monk who had retreated to the corner as his stomach lost its own battle against the gruesome scene it had just witnessed.

"Thank you, Brother…" Aramis said softly noticing how the young monk trembled, fear written on his face.

"Fr…Francis. Brother Francis," he stammered. Aramis nodded. Picking up his dagger, which he bathed once more in the clean water, Aramis began to dig around in the wound as delicately as possible. Aramis sent a small prayer of thanks for Girard's unconscious state. The bullet had entered high on his torso where the shoulder met the armpit. It had avoided damaging anything too important but had shattered his collarbone on entry. Finally, Aramis withdrew a small fragment of lead – part of the ball that had splintered off on impact and was the likely cause of the putrid response. Taking the poultice from D'Artagnan, Aramis slathered the wound with it and then covered it lightly with a clean piece of linen.

"We should let this breathe a bit. The skin is too aggravated to stitch yet. Once the inflammation has receded I can stitch it closed and we can bind it," he said checking the man's other wound, whose stitches had miraculously held; Girard seemed to be resting comfortably. Aramis instructed the young monk to soothe the injured man with the cold compresses standing by and to provide him with fresh linens. He then turned to wash his hand free of his friend's blood. He raised his wooden crucifix to his lips and crossed himself coming face to face with Father Ambrose.

Wordlessly, the older man handed Aramis a clean towel for his hands.

"Thank you," said Aramis, as he dried his hands. He ran them through his dark curls worriedly as he looked back at the man still lying motionless on the table.

"You will probably want to be near your friend as he recovers. Food will be brought to you all here and beds prepared for you to rest," he said. "The chapel is also available for your use…should you need it," he said.

"Thank you Father," Aramis repeated blushing slightly. "And I apologize for my earlier outbursts. When a brother is injured –"

"I understand," said the old priest. "I can see that your medical knowledge is strong. As I suspect is your faith. I'm sure both have helped your brothers in many situations. Come now," he said, looking at the others and gesturing to the food that was being brought in by another group of monks. "Eat and rest. By God's graces, your brother will wake and provide you with the information you seek."

The four musketeers sat vigil by Girard's side throughout the night. It was nearly dawn when Girard awoke suddenly with a gasp.

Athos who was on watch was at his side instantly. Aramis also sprang from where his brothers insisted he rest at the sound of his patient's panicked breathing.

Girard's eyes were flashing in panic, roving the room; his breathing was erratic and he was attempting to fight Athos to rise.

"Girard! You're safe! You're safe! Just breathe!" Athos commanded, trying to make eye contact with the injured man.

Aramis circled and placing one hand on the non-injured shoulder and another on the flailing man's head to comfort him, he echoed Athos until Girard calmed.

"Athos! Aramis!" he gasped, eyes finally focusing.

"Easy brother, easy," said Aramis. "You are in a monastery."

D'Artagnan and Porthos approached the bed, D'Artagnan passing Aramis a cup of water for their injured friend, who accepted it gratefully.

Girard drank a few sips from the cup then turned away, gasping.

"Michel!" he cried, and again tried to rise from the bed. "I heard the shot! He must be injured!"

"Easy, please! Mind your stitches!" begged Aramis as he placed his hand on his friend's chest in an effort to calm his breathing.

"What can you remember?" asked Athos as the man struggled to control his panic. The exhaustion was evident on the injured man, but he fought for control and focused on the lieutenant.

"Michel and I picked up the package for the King from Le Havre. The rain had delayed the delivery so we were stuck waiting after I had sent word of our arrival to Treville. Once we got it we set off right away," gasped the man. Aramis handed him the cup of water again and he took another sip. "We were pursued almost immediately by a group dressed in black. We split up hoping to divide their forces. I was grazed by a bullet near the river. Our rendezvous was to be the monastery. Three men pursued me. I heard another shot ring out, but I don't know where it came from. I dismounted and battled two of the men on foot. I returned fire on the third. He must have hit me…" he said, his expression growing dark. "I saw him ride off. I guess I got him too? Must have collapsed after that, because I'm not sure what happened next. The next thing I know, is I'm waking up to you four…Michel, is he here? Did you find Michel?" he said, grabbing Aramis' sleeve and pleading.

Aramis locked eyes with the injured man, and covering the hand grasping his sleeve with his other hand, he gave it a squeeze. "We found Michel's body. He will be buried in the morning. I'm sorry," he said, his dark eyes full of sympathy as the injured man reacted to the news, his grief evident.

"Please, I need to see him…I need to say my farewell…" Girard whispered, fatigue and injury taking their toll.

"You will brother, you will. We will wait for your blessing before we lay him to rest," promised Athos from the man's other side. "But first, we need more details about the men who pursued you. Where did they come from? How many were there? Is there anything about them that might help us understand why they were pursuing you?"

Girard swallowed and once more tried to focus, fighting against the need to rest. "They…They knew to follow us. Someone had tipped them off that we were carrying something for the King. As soon as we left the city they took after us. Six men in total. One of the men I recognized from the inn. They must be scouting out the place…waiting for packages. Not sure what we carried…must have seen the royal seal…" he muttered as his eyes drifted closed.

"Well, that's a lead," said Porthos as Girard was overcome by his injuries.

Athos nodded. "We will need to assume that an attack may be coming this way. We should make our preparations. The bandits who pursued Girard and Michel will not be expecting to find armed musketeers within the monastery."

"You think it's likely that they'll attack here? At a church?" D'Artagnan asked incredulously.

"Times are hard," growled Porthos. "I doubt these men are the pious type."

"It's likely they will not expect to meet any resistance from the monks. They are aware that Girard is injured, though not to what extent. It would seem like easy pickings for a troop of armed men to take one man by force," said Athos. "We should prepare the brothers," he said, nodding to D'Artagnan, who left to assemble Father Ambrose and the rest of the holy men. "How is Girard?" he asked Aramis.

The medic placed his hand to the man's forehead. "He's warm," he said, "But I think that's more from exertion than infection. His stitches were pulled but are still intact. When he comes round again we'll need to get him to eat something…before he is brought to Michel."

"Hopefully, Michel will be the only casualty from all of this," said Porthos grimly, looking at the still man. There was no need for Athos and Aramis to voice their agreement.

oOo

A/N: Thanks for waiting! This was a long one after some time in the woods!

As always, I know nothing of the medical craft at the time and most of my references to such, dear readers, have been taken from better researched stories of your own, so we're all in this together! I do know that Thomas Aquinas had lengthy works on medical practices and honey is antibacterial, but that's about it!

Thank you for all the feedback, follows and favourites!


	5. Chapter 5

The sky peeking through the forest canopy was steel grey as the men approached the monastery, weapons drawn. They grinned at the remnants of the blood now mixed into the mud. They knew that one musketeer was dead, and this one was clearly injured. 12 men against one injured musketeer and a hall full of defenceless monks? This would be an easy pay out - and should a few of the braver monks need to meet their maker, well, wouldn't that be a service rendered – reuniting those holy men with the God they loved?

These grim jokes and laughter passed between the men as they approached the Monastery doors.

"Let us in! We seek sanctuary!" called one man wickedly as he pounded on the wooden doors.

Wordlessly, the doors were pulled open by two monks cloaked in heavy robes. The villains entered knocking the older monk to the ground. His companion stooped to help him up as three other monks entered the courtyard.

One of the hooded monks stepped forward to greet the gang of ruffians.

"'Morning brother,' called one of the men. "You've got something of ours and we want it. 'Else we ain't getting paid!"

"And," hollered another, "We'll take whatever's in your coffers too."

"This is a place of God," answered the monk coldly. "Leave now and he may be merciful."

"Oh yeah?" sneered another man, stepping forward and grabbing the monk by his cassock. "Why doesn't the mighty lord strike me down then, eh?"

Silently, the monastery gates were closed behind the men and locked by the elderly monk who had been knocked to the ground. He then quickly made his way out of the courtyard.

"God works in mysterious ways," said the monk held in the ruffian's clutches.

"We'll see!" said the villain, knocking the monk's hood off to reveal thick brown hair, as he pointed his pistol at the monk's head.

"Say hello to your God for me!" he sneered as he cocked the weapon.

The blue eyes of the monk narrowed as he gave a slight nod, and then, as if struck by a bolt of lightning from the Almighty himself, a crack went out and the villain's skull shattered as the ball made contact. The bell tower rang out and all hell broke loose.

Aramis threw off the robe he was wearing from where he stood at the top of the courtyard's stairs, pistol still smoking in his hand. Athos stepped forward over the body of the dead villain and began his attack with D'Artagnan dropping his robe and attacking from the right flank. Porthos, a terrifying and formidable figure in his cassock, barred the exit as the four musketeers engaged the bandits in combat.

Athos had his rapier and main gauche drawn and was battling with two opponents who both had some surprising skill with a blade. They pushed the musketeer backwards pressing their offensive. Athos read the men's patterns, discerning a break in their alternating attacks wherein he was able to deliver a devastating strike to one of his opponents' abdomens.

As D'Artagnan entered the fray, he too was set upon by two men. Using his speed, he dodged a massive lunge from one man with just enough time to parry a blow from another. He did not see the third man who had snuck around to his backside and attempted to stab him from behind. Another loud crack and a flash of powder proved that Aramis, however had seen the cowardly attack coming for their youngest. The man fell dead, crashing into one of the other attackers who had D'Artagnan engaged.

Aramis flipped his pistol around in his hand and using it as if was a club, struck the first man who came running across the courtyard towards him. The man crumpled at the foot of the stairs. Unsheathing his rapier, he ducked under the swipe of another countering with a riposte of his own.

In front of the gates, Porthos was just discarding his own spent pistol, the bullet having found residence in the torso of another of the villains. Casting it aside, he raised his parrying dagger to counter the man who leapt at him with a raised blade. He followed that up with a crushing blow to the man's jaw that had him spinning away. A third attacker leapt at Porthos and managed to plunge his dagger into the big musketeer's arm. Porthos bellowed with rage. The man was large and grappled with the wounded musketeer, locking arms as they fought for dominance.

At the sound of Porthos' bellow, the other musketeers reacted instantly, the intensity of their individual battles spiking. Aramis' deadly grace intensified its purpose as he exchanged blows with his foe. His tiring opponent went for a killing overhead blow, which the marksman easily stepped away from before plunging his rapier deep into the villain's chest. He kicked the body away and turned to make his way towards Porthos.

Athos was growing tired of his opponent who continued to plague him with murderous intent. The man was looking to kill and would not tire, so Athos took charge. After another wild move from his attacker, Athos suddenly pushed forward. The action startled his opponent who stumbled slightly, nearly dropping his weapon. Athos plunged his main gauche into the man's shoulder, nullifying the offending limb before bringing his sword's pommel up into the man's face with a sickening crunch.

D'Artagnan had just dispatched his opponent and was headed towards Porthos when one of his original combatants was finally able to extricate himself from beneath his co-conspirator's dead body. He lashed out at the Gascon from his knees. D'Artagnan leapt over the blade into a roll, somehow keeping his blade in hand. Glancing around, he saw Porthos grappling with the behemoth and Athos dealing with his errant combatant. From the corner of his eye he saw Aramis heading to aid Porthos.

D'Artagnan's opponent was now back on his feet in a hunched position, desperately swiping and lunging for the Gascon's midsection. D'Artagnan leapt back, trying to keep out of the reach of the wild swings. His foot slipped from under him, causing him to falter slightly as his adversary's blade sliced across his chest. D'Artagnan hissed as he felt the blade sting, but he knew the wound wasn't deep. Raising his left arm to his chest to put some pressure on the wound, the Gascon resumed his defensive stance, searching for an opening to end this battle. He carefully stepped backwards, causing his foe's swings to grow ever wilder and more desperate until finally, his inertia carried him too far. The follow through of his strike had left him off balance; D'Artagnan pounced on this opportunity and the bandit moved no more.

While the others were finishing their own battles in an attempt to reach him, Porthos and the large bandit remained locked in combat. Blood was freely streaming from the wound in Porthos' arm. The other man made to capitalize on what he presumed to now be Porthos' weakness. Porthos dropped his shoulder under the force of the other man. The two were locked together like two bears battling for supremacy, eyes black with battle. Porthos roared under the strain and the pain in his arm and with extreme effort, he pushed the man back slightly. Without their arms breaking contact, Porthos used that momentum to drive his knee up and into his foe's ribs. An audible crack was heard as the man exhaled suddenly. He faltered, and Porthos unleashed a torrent of blows equivalent to canon fire, driving the man backwards. One final blow sent the man sailing backwards, his head making contact with the courtyard's cobblestones with a resounding thud.

"Porthos!" shouted Aramis, skidding to a stop at his side.

The brawler was breathing heavily. He was covered in blood, though he couldn't be sure how much belonged to him and how much to his enemies.

"'m fine," he grumbled, straightening up and lowering his fists from their pugilist's position.

Aramis grabbed the scarf from the man's head and pressed it into the wound to stem the bleeding. "Athos? D'Artagnan?" he called over his shoulder.

"We're fine," panted D'Artagnan as he made his way to the marksman. The medic's eyes narrowed as he saw the gash on the young man's chest that he continued to put pressure on with his left arm.

"That will require cleaning and maybe stitches," he warned.

"It's not deep," grumbled the Gascon.

"But it was close," retorted Athos, concern evident as he surveyed his wounded comrades. "Any survivors?" he asked.

Porthos nodded. "Squirrelly looking one. Over that way. Just knocked him out," he grunted, the adrenaline fading making the blood loss and the stabbing known to the man, and the marksman who began to lead him towards the monastery doors. Athos nodded.

"Me as well, though I don't think I was as kind to his face..." he said.


	6. Chapter 6

The holy brothers had begun to filter out to the courtyard now that the noise of the battle had ceased. Brother Francis, who had assisted them earlier, came to D'Artagnan's side and insisted on helping him to follow Aramis back into the infirmary, which had been prepared for them.

Father Ambrose approached Athos.

"Forgive us Father, there was no other choice," Athos said.

The old man nodded wisely. "We heard and saw all. The men here were intent to murder and steal. They showed greed, and heresy with murderous intent. It was God's will that they meet their ends this way."

"There are two who yet live that will return with us to Paris to stand trial. Their fates will be decided by the King's will," Athos said.

oOo

Back in the infirmary, Porthos lay in the bed next to Girard, the injured man now wide-awake having heard the pistol fire and the battle waging outside. Porthos was pale and sweaty and was leaning back against several pillows – whether this was from the loss of blood or from suffering the ordeal of stitching, Aramis did not know, but he did know better than to comment on it.

D'Artagnan was sitting in a chair; Brother Francis had made a poultice, cleaned and bandaged D'Artagnan's chest under Aramis' instruction and watchful gaze.

Athos entered the room, followed by Father Ambrose and Brother Jean. Giving D'Artagnan a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he took a seat in the chair next to Porthos. Aramis looked up at him from Girard's side where he stood, redressing his wounds. The inflammation had gone down and the infection had not returned so Aramis made quick work of re-stitching the injury.

"How are our prisoners?" the marksman asked as he liberally coated his needlework in the poultice as Girard grimaced.

"Bound, but fed," replied Father Ambrose. "We are brothers of mercy, after all."

Aramis smirked at the Father's reply.

"And our patients?" asked Athos. "Let me guess, you're all fine?" he said

"Well, I wouldn't say no to somethin' to eat," said Porthos, a little groggily. The monks chuckled, and the younger one left to fetch dinner for the musketeers.

"We have cleaned the courtyard and buried the bodies. Your brother's body still awaits your blessing. We didn't think it right that they should share his ceremony," Brother Jean said to Aramis and Girard.

Girard swallowed hard. "Thank you," he said.

"I was a soldier once too," he replied. "I know what it feels like to lose a brother." He locked eyes with Aramis for a moment then moved away.

"If you're able to Girard, we should leave in the morning, once Michel is laid to rest," said Athos. "I'm sure the King's patience for his parcel will not last much longer."

Girard nodded. "I will be ready," he said, but whether he meant to depart or to say goodbye to their brother, no man present had the heart to ask.

The evening passed quietly, with warm food and quiet conversation. Brother Jean, Porthos and Girard exchanged war stories while Father Ambrose, and Athos listened in. Aramis went over the herbs in his medical bag and their uses with D'Artagnan and Brother Francis, and how to treat and identify certain ailments.

As the night wore on, Aramis checked on his patients. Porthos and Girard slept soundly on their cots.

"How D'Artagnan manages to sleep in positions like this, I'll never understand," said Ahos as he draped a blanket over their youngest where he had fallen asleep in an awkward tangle of limbs on a chair by the fire.

"It's a gift," said Aramis somewhat distractedly, his hand moving frequently to the cross hanging around his neck as he checked on his sleeping and recovering brothers.

"You too are allowed some rest," Athos said to the marksman, coming to stand by him where he stood near Porthos' heavily slumbering form.

Aramis gave a soft laugh. "It is hard for me to find peace knowing they are in pain," he replied.

Athos locked his eyes onto his brother's, the ice blue eyes meeting the warm brown ones with a shared, deep affection. "Aramis," he said, "You have done all you can for them. You saved Girard from his infection, D'Artagnan from an assailant. I trusted you to kill the man with the gun to my head, and I'm sure you would have rescued Porthos from the monster he was fighting had he not won his battle before you could reach him. Now you've treated all their wounds and have hardly ate or rested yourself. If I need to brother, I will knock you unconscious myself, if only so you'll rest for a few hours."

Aramis grinned at the swordsman next to him.

"Part of me thinks you might enjoy that," he responded.

"Part of me would agree with you," came the reply. "Though the larger part of me would do it only through a great concern for your well-being," Athos said, his eyes conveying the profound emotions that his dry delivery hid.

Aramis chuckled softly again. Reaching out, he grasped Athos' arm briefly, before turning. "You're right, I should get some rest. I should like to steal away to the chapel first before we leave," he said.

Athos nodded. "Do not stay too long though. Your sins are not so many that you should spend the whole night on your knees." He paused for a moment reflecting. "Though, I guess that would depend on who you've been sinning with…" he said.

With a grin and a wink, Aramis withdrew to the small chapel as Athos also settled himself upon one of the beds prepared by the monks.

oOo

Aramis sat in silence before the crucifix hanging in the small chapel of the monastery. The soft shitfing of his rosary beads were the only sound.

Often others found it strange that a man of appetites like Aramis' found his solace in the starkness and comfort of church pews and prayers, but that in a sense was what made Aramis, Aramis. He was a man of contradictions: devout in his beliefs, though they were far removed from the rigid doctrine of what was preached from the pulpit; a libertine but a defender of women; a soldier and a healer; an eye of deadly accuracy, but also the first to notice the despair of others.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," said Brother Jean as he entered the chapel. "I had a feeling I might find you here."

"It's no trouble," said Aramis. He paused and looked at the monk who took a seat in the pew next to him. "I've been meaning to apologize to you," said Aramis. "It was wrong of me to act the way I did when we met."

Brother Jean shook his head. "There is no need to apologize. In all honesty, your actions may have saved your friend's life. Healing of wounds has never been my forte," the monk admitted.

"How did this responsibility fall to you then?" asked Aramis curiously.

Brother Jean sighed. "I guess because I have the most experience with bloodshed," he said. "For what I've seen, for what I've done, I have felt that perhaps I owe it to God to try to undo some of the pain I may have caused in my former life."

"You were a soldier," Aramis said. "I heard you telling the others."

"Yes," responded the monk. "A long time ago. I served against the Huguenots, fighting for my King and my God. And you?" he asked Aramis. "How did you find yourself burdened with the pains of others?"

Aramis smirked at the way the question was phrased. "I learned early that in our line of work, a medic can be worth his weight in gold," he paused. "That, and perhaps I too am trying to reverse some of the hurts I've caused by healing those who are injured."

"As your penance?"

Aramis sighed. "Perhaps as my purpose…" The men were silent for a moment.

"I saw you. You are an exceptional soldier," said Brother Jean. "There is no shame in that." Quiet again, and then:

"Do you think…" Aramis began. "Do you believe that we will be forgiven for our deeds in the end? The bible makes it quite clear that to kill is a sin…"

Brother Jean smiled slightly. "I have had this same conversation many times with Father Ambrose, who is much wiser than I am," said the monk.

"And?" asked Aramis.

"Are you a man of faith Aramis? From what I have witnessed it seems clear that you are. Do you believe that your deeds are carried out in the service of God, in the name of justice and in the defence of the innocent? To kill is a sin, yes, but did not Our Lord have warriors in his service? Many times have I expressed my doubts and fears to Father Ambrose. He has always told me that our God is an understanding God. If, when we are called before him, there is goodness and righteousness in our hearts, if our actions were just and our repentance is true, there may yet be a place for men like you and I with the Lord, alongside the warrior angel Michael," said the old soldier monk, rising from the pew, leaving the marksman to consider his words.


	7. Chapter 7

The musketeers rose early to finally lay the body of Michel to rest. They buried him in the sunshine in the monastery's cemetery before saying their goodbyes to Father Ambrose and Brothers Jean and Francis who saw them off.

"Farewell and safe travels. May God's light shine on you and all your deeds and may the blessing of Michael, the archangel, guide your swords in battle," said Father Ambrose as he blessed the musketeers and bid them adieu.

The musketeers rode with as much speed as possible on their return journey to Paris. Girard and Aramis drove the cart carrying their prisoners in it. The bandits had admitted that they had been hired to kill two musketeers that would be carrying a parcel to Paris. They were paid handsomely and were told they would be allowed to keep the content of the parcel. Unfortunately, neither man had met or could identify the man who had commissioned them. They were placed in the Châtelet upon their arrival in the city, before the musketeers made for the palace to report to their King and Captain.

The King was in a surprisingly good mood when the musketeers arrived at court; the return of the sunshine and his expensive new trinket from his sister having much improved his dour countenance. He was seated on his golden throne with the ever-present Cardinal Richelieu glowering at his side.

"Forgive this tardiness, your Majesty," Treville said as Girard knelt before the King and proffered him the gift that had caused the soldiers so much hardship.

"There had better be a good reason for this lateness, Treville," said the King as he gleefully embraced the gift.

"There is your majesty," said Girard, as the King and Treville looked at him expectantly. The Cardinal looked grim. "We were attacked upon our return journey by men hired to specifically target this package and your musketeers. We believe this was done in an effort to discredit your regiment and to cause you to doubt our unrelenting fealty to you, Majesty."

"Where is the proof of this?" demanded the Cardinal. "If you were attacked, how was it that you managed to escape?"

"Lieutenant?" asked Treville. The King leaned forward in his chair trying to disguise his eagerness – he always loved hearing about the adventures of his Musketeers.

Athos stepped forward. "When Girard and Michel failed to return with the package for your Majesty, Captain Treville ordered us to assist in its retrieval. We found the body of Michel on our way to Le Havre. He had been killed by the men sent to steal the package. These bandits had been preying on the merchants moving between Le Havre and Paris for weeks. Michel was a good soldier. We will feel his loss." Athos paused to let the weight of Michel's death settle upon the King before continuing.

"Girard had also been injured," said Athos gesturing to the man. "We followed his trail of blood to where we found the bodies of two of the bandits."

"Two men!" exclaimed the King. "While injured?"

"Yes, your Majesty. I shot the third, but he hit me as well," he said gesturing to his arm that was set in a sling.

"Well that much is obvious," scoffed the Cardinal.

Athos' eyes flashed; Porthos' hand formed a fist; Aramis clenched his jaw.

Athos continued tersely, "Girard had managed to find sanctuary at a monastery, where we found him grievously injured, but still in possession of the parcel. He and Michel did not fail your Majesty in their duty. Michel sacrificed his life in your service –"

"- as all of your musketeers would, your Majesty," interrupted Treville with a warning glance at Athos to control his temper. The gathered musketeers all bowed in acquiescence to the King.

"Of course, Treville, I have no doubt," said the King, impatiently. "But how did you escape?" he demanded.

At this, Aramis stepped forward and recounted the ruse used to lure the bandits into the monastery and the ensuing battle that followed. If he made some slight embellishments on the action that had taken place in the courtyard, none of the others objected as the King sat back, eyes bright with satisfaction, as Aramis finished the report with a slight bow.

"This was excellent work!" said the King. "And these prisoners, where are they now?"

"Awaiting your judgement in the Châtelet, sire," said Athos.

"Excellent! Excellent!" said the King. "We shall have a confession and justice served. See to it Cardinal," he said rising.

"Good work, Treville," the King said as he stepped down from his dais. "I always knew your men could be trusted. I never doubted them for a moment. Come, Cardinal," he said as he exited the throne room, a sour and disappointed Richelieu swooping after him like an overgrown bat.

oOo

It was late when they finally got back to the garrison. Girard retired to his room; Treville turned to face his other four men.

"You did well," he said. "You restored the King's faith in the regiment – not that he ever doubted you. Even if you used your gift of embellishment to sway the King," his eyes flashed at his men, but Aramis was sure he was stifling a smile. "Perhaps you've earned the rest of the next day or two off duty," he said, leaving his men grinning.

"I always knew you could charm a peacock out of his feathers," said Porthos clapping Aramis on the shoulder. "To the tavern?"

"What can I say, mon ami? It's a gift" replied Aramis.

"As long as it doesn't get us killed," said D'Artagnan grinning.

Athos shook his head to hide his smirk, as he followed his friends out of the garrison gates. The Gascon was catching on quickly.

oooooooooooooooo

A/N: Thanks for reading! I'm working on a few different story ideas, so i'm sure I'll have a new adventure up soon! Thanks again for all the follows, favourites and feedback!


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